Apple Cider
by taciepants
Summary: Set during the Christine fiasco, the Phantom has a run in with an old “friend” who works in the opera house. As he becomes a broken man, she will be the one that soothes his aching heart, even if that means losing all she has ever loved as well.
1. And so it begins

_Disclaimer_: **I do not own anything in this story but Avalyn and her father.**

Set during the Christine fiasco, the Phantom has a run in with an old "friend" who works in the opera house. As he becomes a broken man, she will be the one that soothes his aching heart, even if that means losing all she has ever loved as well.

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It was hard for him to breathe, his sobs choking him as he slid to the floor of the lair. Anger and betrayal swept through him like a fire, consuming him. He pounded his fists on the stone floor, blood seeping to the surface as the skin tore open. Hot tears fell from his glowing gold eyes, his face screwed up into a grimace. All he could think of was her face as she gazed upon his hideousness. Her face, so perfect, so innocent, had looked so revolted and violated. Her faced reminded him of his mother.

He continued to weep until he became too exhausted to hold himself up and he lay on the cold floor, slipping in and out of consciousness.

After hours of a fitful rest he opened his eyes to the sound of footsteps in one of the various secret passages in the area. He bolted upright and tried to gather his senses, his eyes burning and his balance off. He propped himself up with an armchair and listened, silently for where the footsteps came from. They were light and feminine and were still many yards away from his home, but he did not want anyone to find him, not even the beautiful Christine.

"Christine," he whispered softly, tears threatening to fall again. But this intruder made him angry and he quickly forgot his sadness and, like a cat, went to fetch his beloved Punjab lasso and his wretched mask to teach the trespasser a lesson in personal space.

Silently, he moved about the caverns, always one step ahead of his clumsy prey, who was most definitely female as he could hear her squeak every time she fell. Soon, he was upon her, always staying a few feet behind her as she traveled in the darkness.

He followed her for a few agonizing minutes before he heard her speak.

_His Pov._

"Those horrid rats, so high and mighty they thing of themselves," she whispered angrily in a strong voice with a slight hint of an accent I couldn't place. "They think they can just accuse this man of everything that happens in the opera, when the crew can't tie a knot correctly and all the rats do is dance and gossip and look pretty though their brains are missing. What kind of life is that? Horrid, I say." I continued to follow her, intrigued and confused as to why this woman was traveling my catacombs. "Bloody Hell, how can one see down here? At this rate I'm never going to find him," She sighed. I closed my eyes and readied myself for the scream.

"Perhaps, mademoiselle, I do not want to be found," I said, my voice booming through the passage. I watched her as she stopped suddenly and then slowly, without fear, turned to face me. No scream came from her lips.

"Are you the Phantom who resides in the opera's basements?" She said at me, since she couldn't see me standing there. So bold, I thought to myself, and so very foolish.

"I am," was all I said in response as I slowly opened my eyes.

A slight gasp was audible but it was so faint, you would have thought a mouse had done it. "Your eyes, they are…glowing," she whispered, in awe. She stood there, staring into my eyes as if waiting for me to introduce myself formally.

"What are you waiting for? Tell me why you are here or I shall kill you here and now," my voice rising as I became annoyed.

She actually had the audacity to huff at me.

"Why are you threatening me, monsieur Phantom? I have only come to see if you actually exist. My intentions are not to disturb you, rest assured," She smiled, never breaking eye contact.

I became very angry. "I do not care what your intentions are, I want them out of my home!" I was practically roaring at her to leave, but it was obvious by the way she approached me that she would not. She got so close to me, our lips almost touched. I became nervous and I almost flinched. I inhaled her scent. Fresh apples and spices. It was then I recognized her. She was the daughter of the Opera cook, Avalyn was her name, where she was usually covered in flour and sauces from around the world, helping her father cook.

Immediately my anger dissipated as I began to remember her. Many nights when she was younger she would put a plate of leftover food from the day near a vent in the back of the kitchen for me. This was because she followed some older ballet rats as they snuck around the opera in the dead of night and heard my singing in the vents in the kitchen. Avalyn became entranced by the idea of someone living in the walls and didn't want them to starve.

I began to relax as she stood there, her steady breathing a comfort for me. I soon broke the silence. "I never starved because of you."

Slowly she raised her hand to my face and brushed her nails on my skin, causing me to shudder and close my eyes.

"You're welcome, monsieur Phantom," And she glided past me to go back to the surface where she belonged.

For a long while I leaned against the stone and thought of the young girl Avalyn used to be. For a moment, my pain was the last thing on my mind as I headed back towards my home for a nice long rest.


	2. Of Toads and Tortellini

Disclaimer: See first chapter.

-xDarkxTatsux: Thank you for your review. I hope this chapter is as good as the last. :)

A.N. - just for reference for the future, when I write His pov, it is Erik's and when I write her pov, it is Avayla's.

Excuse the lack of Erik, but this is an important for back-story and a future reference as to why Avalyn is sometimes cruel and unfeeling in upcoming chapters.

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Erik would have had a beautiful sleep if it weren't for that vile Carlotta and the opera's so called 'managers' making a fuss in the grand foyer and God knows where else in his precious opera house.

He had a fitful rest, but he rested nonetheless and awoke with big plans forming in his head about what he would do this night, what with an opera he had to observe. He did not want the opera house to scoff at his demands any longer and plotted, rather darkly, about what he would do now.

"But those worries are nothing compared to what Christine thinks of me now, how she had looked at me!" He wailed suddenly while pacing in his lair, sheets of music strewn about, broken bottles of ink lay broken against a wall; the wall itself was shiny and still dripping the red blood of the ink.

A sigh escaped his lips, his eyes down turned and softly glowing, he reached down and grasped a little figurine from his display of characters and cast. His chagrin changed to a wicked smirk splayed across his features as he made the figure hop around the stage and croak.

Her pov.

"I think I've burned myself but I can't exactly feel it, papa. What should I do?" My voice roared over the bubbling sauce and steaming vegetables in the kitchen to my father, who was chopping tomatoes.

He lifted his head and nodded it towards the sink, where I quickly ran my hand under a stream of warm water. Promptly, a large red welt appeared down my arm in the shape of a thunderbolt from the scalding water.

It was just hours from the newest opera production, Ill Muto, and my father and I were cooking under a deadline that was coming to an end far more rapidly than we were keeping up.

I sighed and resumed my duty of boiling the tortellini pasta, all twelve pounds of it, for the management and cast of the play. I was occupying myself with proportioning the spices and salts for the night when I thought I heard faint singing coming from the vent next to the table I was working at. Looking back at where my father was working to make sure he wouldn't see, I lowered myself down on the floor, kneeling so that I could hear the noises without straining my neck, I listened.

It started soft, but as he became angrier his voice grew more powerful, filled with a profound sorrow I felt in my heart. The melody, the words, and the way he sung his grief brought such tears to my eyes I had only felt once before in my life. His song reminded me of the misery I felt when my mother died not long ago and my heart bled with his; sorry for him and who he had lost or was going to lose.

I was snapped out of my miserable nostalgia by my father's stern yet soft voice saying that I was going to burn tonight's dinner. When I stood up and turned to face him, when he saw my tears he immediately came over to me and comforted me, knowing that the only reason why I would be red faced and weeping was for her. We had both loved her so much and when the news came that she was terminally ill, my father almost murdered the doctor, who only shook his head and said he was sorry for us.

"Are you alright, Ava?" He asked me gently and with a hand on my shoulder. I could only nod and resume my cooking, my face hot and my morale numb. I was not ready for what the Phantom had in store for the evening, but as always, I placed an extra bowl of steaming pasta next to the vent and went backstage to watch the night's performance and hope to mask my sadness.

A. N. - Sorry for such a short chapter and the long delay, work has been taxing on my time. Hopefully the next installment should be ready before Christmas.


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